I waited a long time for you, stayed well past the anger, past the point where I no longer saw romance in your eyes, and even past the point where I no longer wished to find it in my own.
You stopped being a mistake I once made, evolved into a friend I thought I had. But you curled beneath the covers, jabbing a middle finger at those of us on the outside. And that was fine too, for a while, as I’d been trained to be patient with friends. You forgot, however, that patience is not infinite.
But it struck me, as you checked in — as you periodically are wont to do — that it wasn’t me you concern yourself with. Rather, you wished to know if this piece I wrote was for you, or if that song was about you. Am I this character or she, in that poem? As is true with most artists, remembering loves, you are in none of my work and all of it. She is not you; you were never her.
Your words are lies, as evidenced by the way you are absent when I call, unhearing when I speak, unavailable when I text. We do not share – instead, you check to see if I have erased you from my heart.
I filled the space you once took in my heart with spackle, tears, sadness, and a bit of hope … and she, who has brought a chisel and determination. So I invite you to no longer check in, to haunt someone you care about. I have not erased you, since you asked, and would not take it back.
You are too valuable a lesson in what never to do again.